


In Your Hair the Stars

by victoriousscarf



Series: Beware of Heroes [4]
Category: Dune - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:31:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More fallout from Maedhros and Fingon</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Hair the Stars

It was a horrid little spacesport, full of desperate people, refugees and fool scavengers.

And Maedhros had no idea what to make of the small, grubby handed child standing in front of him. It had been too long since he had seen a child to remember how to interact with them.

“What are you?” the dirty child asked, looking up at him from the tin of gruel they were eating.

“Not a what, a who,” Fingon said, covering his laugh with one hand.

“Oh,” the child said and shrugged.

“I,” Maedhros started and let out a breath. “I am Maedhros.”

“He’s called Maedhros the tall,” Fingon said, flight jacket still on his shoulders and bags under his eyes. They were stopping only long enough to refuel. “I’m Fingon, by the way, the not quite so tall.”

“But braver,” Maedhros said, softly, and the child looked between them before cradling the tin to their chest and running off. Maedhros wondered if that was normal child behavior, or something caused by where they were. He could barely remember his own childhood anymore.

“What was that?” Fingon said, staring at him angrily.

“If I’m Maedhros the tall, and you’re Fingon the not quite so tall as Maedhros, then you’re also Fingon the braver than Maedhros,” he replied, surly and daring Fingon to disagree.

Fingon turned and stomped several steps away before turning back. “That’s not true,” he said, Maedhros close on his heels. “That’s just—it’s not true. Why would you say things like that?”

“That you’re braver than I am?” Maedhros asked. “Because you are.”

“Why, because I came for you?” Fingon asked, with a sardonic smile. “That’s not braver, that’s stupid. And you say it like you wouldn’t have come for me.”

Fingon might as well have punched him, the way all the breath left his body. “Why would you say that?” he asked, pained. “We already know the answer to that.” Because he had left Fingon behind on that ice planet, choosing to follow his father’s orders instead of his heart. Fingon, on the other hand, was still technically on probation from breaking orders to rescue him.

Stiffening, Fingon stared at him. “That’s not,” he started and then turned away again, Maedhros still following. His fingers ached as he kept pace with the other man, because his hair was so short now, chopped off at his neck instead of in long braids like it used to be. Maedhros used to idly fantasize about running his hands through that thick hair, unbraiding it before carefully redoing it with the golden ribbons Fingon favored. Now though, it was gone, and he wasn’t sure how to braid hair with only one hand.

“I miss your hair,” he said and Fingon stopped dead, the corridors almost completely deserted.

“You,” he started, turning around. “ _That’s_ what you come up with to miss?”

“I miss a lot of things,” Maedhros said, finally forcing himself to meet Fingon’s eyes. “But yes, I miss your hair. I miss the gold in it.”

“I haven’t worn gold in it in a long time,” Fingon said instead. “It’s not, it was too irritating.” He leaned his head back, bitter smile twisting his mouth. “This used to be simple, didn’t it?”

“What?” Maedhros asked, inching closer without realizing it, eating up the space between them.

“Me and you,” Fingon said, tilting his head enough for their eyes to meet. “It used to be easy.”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros admitted. Because fantasies about braiding Fingon’s hair were perhaps some of the most common, but certainly the most tame of the ones he had through his awkward teenage years and later when both their chests filled out more and Fingon’s smile haunted his dreams. “I’m not sure I ever found you easy.”

“I did, once,” Fingon said, voice low and almost lost in the thrum of the station. “But we can’t really go back, can we?”

“No,” Maedhros said, because it was the only thing he was still sure of. His hand ached with how much he wanted to touch the other man, to trace his cheek and pull him close. He just wasn’t sure what he wanted to do once Fingon was close.

Fingon dropped his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m not braver than you. I’m not. But I do know I’m shorter than you.”

That started a laugh out of Maedhros, and he worked to keep it from turning into a sob. “Yes. You stopped growing early. You’ll never catch up.”

“Come on,” Fingon said, tilting his head. “We need to find food and rest before we head out again.”

“Fingon,” Maedhros called when he turned. “You’re avoiding it again. You won’t talk to me, but we have to—”

“No,” Fingon said, too quickly. “No. Not yet. Maybe s—just later.”

And he walked away before Maedhros could protest again, and he bit back his words to keep from asking, _how much of a later do you think we have_?


End file.
